Second Chance
by Wilusa
Summary: This Original DS fic suggests an answer to one of the series' nagging questions. Why was Elliot Stokes in Europe in the summer of 1970, while all hell was breaking loose at Collinwood?


  
DISCLAIMER: _Dark Shadows _and its canon characters are the property of Dan Curtis Productions; no copyright infringement is intended. When I wrote this several years ago, I imagined Etienne DuLac played by actor Vincent Irizarry. Alas, Vincent Irizarry doesn't belong to me either. _Note: This story contains spoilers for the "haunting" sequence that aired in the late summer and fall of 1970._  
  
******************************************************************************  
.  
.  
An hour after the climb from the railway station to his host's chalet, Elliot Stokes was still winded. Every muscle in his stout, aging body ached. He looked enviously at the man bent over the photographs on the table. "Etienne DuLac" seemed to have everything: youth, rugged good looks, sufficient wealth to buy the Alps' most spectacular view. Why would he want more? In all probability, he didn't.  
  
"DuLac" looked up with a wry smile. "Nice touch," he said, in suddenly unaccented English. "Posing him with the dated newspaper, like a kidnap victim."  
  
"His idea, actually. Didn't want you to think the pictures were taken years ago." Stokes cleared his throat. "Are you...ah...ready to admit your real identity?"  
  
"Can't see why not." The young man extended his hand. "Andreas Petofi. I was about to add, 'At your service, Professor'...but under the circumstances, that might promise too much. I must give the matter more thought."  
  
"Of course." Stokes forced a smile as he shook the proffered hand. A hand that undoubtedly wielded all the power of _the_ Hand, power transferred from body to body after it was once recovered. He breathed a sigh of relief when his own hand was safely back in his lap.  
  
Petofi looked at the pictures again. Quentin Collins and his aged, disfigured portrait, photographed separately and together. "The man isn't a fake," he said, "but the portrait could be. Meant to lure me to Collinwood. Without the portrait, Quentin's body is less desirable than the one I have."  
  
"True," Stokes said evenly. "But you're free to probe my mind in any way you like. You can verify that I, at least, am not hiding anything. And I have personal knowledge of some facts. That Julia Hoffman went to great lengths to acquire a certain painting and have an upper layer removed. That Quentin had amnesia, and the shock of seeing what was under that upper layer restored his memory.  
  
"I can't swear this is the same painting. But there is evidence he recovered his portrait. And in this crisis, I don't think he'd play games."  
  
"Agreed. I'll take your word for it." Petofi dismissed that concern with a wave of his hand. "I'm intrigued by this 'earlier reality' you mentioned. You believe all this somehow happened before? You sought my help, I refused, and Collinwood was destroyed?"  
  
Stokes weighed his words carefully. "I don't claim to remember it. But Barnabas and Julia were transported--accidentally--to 1995, and found the place a ruin, still dominated by the ghost of this mysterious Gerard Stiles. Quentin and a young woman, Carolyn, were insane, the rest of the family dead or vanished. I was still alive--at least when they got there--and told them I'd been in Europe when it happened.  
  
"That was the outcome of a history in which Barnabas and Julia were absent, and we had less warning of the disaster. So this is, necessarily, a changed history. But I suspect there have been very few changes. I know I wouldn't have been in Europe this summer, in the original history, for any reason other than the one that brings me here now. After the danger became apparent, Quentin confided his secret to me...told me where he believed you were...and authorized me to offer you his body, and the portrait, in exchange for your banishing Stiles' ghost and saving the rest of the family."  
  
Petofi pursed his lips. "I can understand his willingness to make that sacrifice now, knowing what the future will hold for him if Stiles isn't defeated. But in the original history...?"  
  
"Yes," Stokes said emphatically, "he would have done it. He's weary of life. He recently lost a woman he loved very much, Amanda Harris. After her death, only fear--the word he used was 'cowardice'--kept him from destroying the portrait and ending it all. Now he's fallen in love with someone else, and he'll do anything to protect her--"  
  
"All right." Petofi chuckled. "That, at least, sounds like the Quentin I remember. Never could resist a pretty face. But if you believe I turned you down in the original history, why expect me to decide differently now?"  
  
_This is it_, thought Stokes. _Does Quentin know this man as well as he thinks?_ He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because we have something else to offer you. _Knowledge_, of a kind you've always wanted. Knowledge we didn't possess in the original history."  
  
"Knowledge." Petofi's eyes gleamed. "You'll have to be more specific. Knowledge...of what?"  
  
"Time travel," said Stokes.  
  
"Ah." Petofi smiled slowly. "That has been a passion of mine. May I ask what method of time travel?"  
  
"This will sound strange," Stokes admitted. "But we know it works, because it brought Barnabas and Julia back from 1995. It's a magical staircase at Collinwood, built by an earlier Quentin Collins in 1840. It apparently pops in and out of existence. It's in the West Wing, where only Quentin lives. So if you claim his body and impersonate him, you'll have easy access. Or if you prefer, you can photograph it, study it, do whatever you choose to enable you to move or duplicate it."  
  
Again, the strange smile. "Just a minute," said Petofi. Stokes watched uneasily as he rose and left the room.  
  
One minute had stretched into five by the time he returned...and laid a stack of photographs on the table. Stokes flipped through them, and his heart sank. Dozens of photos of varying age and quality, taken from every conceivable angle...all showing a plain wooden staircase that ascended into nowhere.   
  
"You've known about it..."  
  
"For quite some time." Petofi sank into his chair. "I discovered it in 1898. I was searching for the portrait, thought Charity Trask might have it.  
  
"It's always been easy to slip in and out of Collinwood, with whole wings unoccupied. And I was in a body no one there had ever seen, so if I'd been caught, I would have been taken for an ordinary burglar. I didn't find the portrait, but I did find...this."  
  
He sighed. "It's not reliable. You can't trust it to appear when you need it, or take you where you want to go. And it can't be moved or duplicated. For what it's worth, I've already tried."  
  
"I see." Stokes tried to mask his disappointment.  
  
Petofi was lost in memory. "But my first little journey was such fun! The staircase took me to 1692...can't imagine why. Gave me a chance to do in an old enemy, a warlock who fancied himself immortal. In the original history he was still alive in 1898, and he'd been a thorn in my side for years.  
  
"I found him on trial for witchcraft. Guilty, of course, but he would have been acquitted if it weren't for me. I temporarily possessed one of the judges, Amadeus Collins. 'Amadeus' gave the most eloquent performances of his life, in court, and in persuading a member of Judah's coven to betray him." He snickered. "The girl never knew she'd been 'brought back to God' by a man who had no more use for God than her former Master did. Saved her life, though. She bore a striking resemblance to--never mind, you wouldn't know her."  
  
His smile faded. "I attended Judah's execution in my own body--that is, the one I'd been using in 1898. He'd never seen it. In fact, he couldn't have known me personally--I hadn't been born in 1692! But he looked right at me, and for a moment I thought..." He gave a barely perceptible shudder, then shrugged it off.  
  
"In any case...I'm truly sorry, Professor, but I've decided I can't help you."  
  
"I understand," Stokes said dispiritedly. "I didn't think you would, when it turned out we weren't offering any time-travel information you didn't already have."  
  
"No, that's not it." Petofi regarded him soberly. "I could lie, but I see no reason to.  
  
"You're assuming the offer of Quentin's body, and the portrait, isn't enough. You see my life and think it's highly satisfactory, just as it is...and you're right.  
  
"But I wouldn't have to assume Quentin's identity! I could choose to keep this body, and use the portrait to control him. For a person who enjoys power, the possibilities are fascinating. I assure you, I'm tempted."  
  
Stokes swallowed hard. "But then why are you refusing? And why did you refuse in the original history?"  
  
"That's what I'm getting at. My only real question has been whether you made the offer in the original history. You're sure you did. And..._I'm sure I accepted_."  
  
"Accepted?" Stokes felt the blood drain from his face. "You mean...you agreed to help, and we didn't get back to Collinwood in time? My God!"  
  
Petofi was shaking his head. "No. I have many powers, Professor. When need dictates, I can be wherever I wish in seconds. I wouldn't have waited to travel with you.  
  
"The reason I won't try to help now is that I'm not a fool. I don't know who Gerard Stiles is, how he became so powerful. But I do know that in the original history, I tried to destroy him. And _he_ destroyed _me_."  
.  
.  
.  
.  
(The End)  



End file.
